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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29233407">California Dreamin</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingembarrassingshit/pseuds/writingembarrassingshit'>writingembarrassingshit</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>70s, Coming of Age, Flirting, HOMIEsexual, M/M, Pining, Roadtrip, Rock and Roll, Ultimate besties, living in a van</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:15:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,358</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29233407</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingembarrassingshit/pseuds/writingembarrassingshit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>George is stuck in a lonely town.   Dream passes through and swoops him up with nothing but a van, a stack of cassettes, and promise of concerts.  Eager to find adventure, George agrees to up and leave.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>California Dreamin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This storyline is heavily inspired by another fic from another fandom, but I loved the storyline so much I decided to make it applicable to MCYT; specifically the Pop Off Crew.  It is NOT copied and pasted I swear (making it my own), but the storyline is the same so don't give me too much credit LMAO. Please don't cross CCs boundaries, this is obviously made for fun and meant to be lighthearted :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A curl of smoke floats up towards the ceiling, the soft buzzing of the air gives sound effect to the humidity beating into the record shop, even from inside there is a sticky film covering everything.  The time is dragging on, and George can’t seem to get the clock to move no matter how hard he stares at it.</p><p>“Hey, George?”</p><p>He’s in the back of the shop pretending to sort the newest shipment, in reality distractedly smoking and eating M&amp;Ms, when he hears Mark calling him from the front counter.  He pauses momentarily, the best form of acknowledgment he can muster, and promptly returns to picking out the blue candies from his handful, a joint dangling from his teeth. </p><p>“George!”</p><p>He tosses the blue into his mouth, wondering if they really do taste sweeter or if it was just in his head.</p><p>“George, holy fuck, come here! I’ve got someone who you’ll want to meet!”</p><p>The young man kicks the filing cabinet he was leaning against, hearing the aluminum ring dully, and contemplates fleeing out the back ‘Emergency Only’ door.</p><p>It’s not that he hates his job, he really doesn’t.  He just hates that his few friends had ran away to college at the last second, leaving him at this dusty record shop.  The same record shop he’d been at for years.  Despite his constant repetitive mantra to himself that it was only temporary, these creaky floors were feeling more permanent every day, especially since his friends disappeared.  </p><p>The dark green curtain separating the front from the back of the shop is thrown to the side, an exasperated Mark glaring through.</p><p>“Now.”</p><p>George heaves a sigh that had been brewing for ages, brushes his hair back, and removes his back from the metal cabinet.  He flicks the final ash from his joint to the floor, ignoring Mark's glare and comments about having to sweep the whole floor as a punishment.  </p><p>He paints his best smile onto his face so he doesn't look as miserable as he feels, steps over the discarded smoke, and pushes his way through the curtains.</p><p>He is immediately met with a tall broad man, a miles worth of legs, and a fluffy mop of light brown hair leaning forward onto the counter.  George stops, only for a moment, to reach for his recently discarded joint.  He’s only brought back to reality when he remembered it had reached the end.</p><p>“George, this is Dream.  Dream, this is that dumbass I was telling you about.”</p><p>Green eyes peer out from under the hair, and there’s nothing to distinguish the expression he’s wearing as it is hidden behind a large pink bubble.  </p><p>And there’s half a second when George thinks this is just another one of his rampant dreams, that this bubble blowing man who hasn’t uttered a word but already has him entranced is simply a figment of his imagination and he will wake up any minute.  </p><p>But then the candy bubble pops, and Dream is standing up, and George realizes he will have to say something if he doesn’t want to be immediately perceived as a ditz.  </p><p>“Dream?” he asks, hoping his voice crack was only in his head, “What kind of hipster parents came up with that name?” he chuckles at his own joke.</p><p>Dream just raises his eyebrows at George, and suddenly he has a voice.</p><p>“George? What kind of prissy British parents came up with that name?” he retorts, and George soon comes to realize that he has the kind of voice you’ll never forget.  He gives a small snort, and looks back up at the man, wondering what he’s doing in this dusty shop in this dusty town.  As if reading his mind, Dream speaks up again.</p><p>“So I hear you like concerts, George.”</p><p>----------------</p><p>“This is a joke right? Like you’re one of those weirdos who gets paid to prank people?” George asks for the umpteenth time, in a daze.  It’s been about twenty minutes and they’re outside on the sidewalk, the slight whir of cicadas and a light tinkling of the ice cream truck providing the background music for their stroll.  There’s silence for a few seconds, a scuffing of tennis shoes on pavement before he asks again.  Because there’s simply no way that in the span of a week he had been abandoned by his only friends in the desolate town of Micanopy, Florida, population six hundred, and now this strange man has suddenly shown up into his life, bearing not only the gift of friendship and free eye candy, but also concert tickets and a promise of adventure.</p><p>“I know, dude.” Dream shrugs lightly.  His voice was sandy, it was comforting yet captivating at the same time and George didn’t understand how he could be so calm right now because…  “I was heading out of town anyways.” But that doesn’t even brush the surface of the situation, that isn’t even the tip of the iceberg.  </p><p>George spins on his toe, a wave of disbelief rushing over him.  “You’re genuinely going to drive to California? To see Styx?” he demands.  “Why?”</p><p>Dream shrugs again and looks at his feet.  “Same reason you’d want to probably.  Not to mention the Queen concert the next week, and the Eagles the week after.  It’s concert central over there in Cali, I’m telling you.”</p><p>George stares at him, mouth agape.  “Last winter, I called in an average of thirteen times a day to 94.2 requesting songs.  I’m keeping it a stack and a half with you man, music is my life and rock music is my soul.” he states, with a stone serious expression on his face.  “Listen to me Dream, I have listened to every song on all of their albums at least a hundred times over.   I could recite their entire discography word for word, frontwards and backwards.”</p><p>Dream gave a lopsided grin and kicked a stray pebble from his path before he spoke, “I interned at a radio station a couple states over for a summer and we had a couple weirdos like you who called everyday, luckily they all had good taste in music so it was bearable.”</p><p>And George doesn’t believe in fate, he doesn’t believe in fate or destiny or the cosmos or star alignment or any of that ‘what's meant to be will be’ lifestyle.  It seems childish and immature and he refuses to feed into it.</p><p>But somehow the universe made damn sure that the tall, fluffy haired, hipster Dream from the next town over would stumble into the record shop that George worked at on this sunny day of June 27th, 1976.  </p><p>And the universe also made damn sure that this mysterious man would mention his plans to flee the state and pursue the concert craze to George's boss, Mark.  Mark, who had spent the past three years hearing countless stories and complaints from George about how he deserved to be lounging on a lawn chair, cold beer in his hand, with nothing but concert plans in his future.</p><p>And whether it was the cosmos or the universe to thank for the hipster, George didn’t know which one or if it was either.  But he finally feels warmth in his stomach, he finally feels happy, and he feels like he just needs to thank someone.</p><p>So he stops smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk in this dusty town of Micanopy, Florida, and spreads his arms wide, lifting his chin to face the skies.  He feels a slight humid sweat forming on his face, and releases all his emotion and sound he built up, screaming “Thank You!” straight into the air.  He’s not even embarrassed in front of his new… friend? He wasn’t sure how to address Dream because he wasn’t even sure of how to think about Dream.  </p><p>Dream gives a smile as he looks up from his sneakers to meet eyes with George.  George feels his arms drop, and suddenly he’s aware of the humidity again as his breath settles.  Dream rubs his nose with his thumb and continues to walk on the sidewalk, George closely in pursuit.</p>
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